


immer fällt auf mich ihr schatten / her shadow always falls on me

by neednot



Category: Rebecca - Daphne du Maurier, Rebecca - Daphne du Maurier & Related Fandoms, Rebecca - Levay/Kunze
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Lesbian Sex, also some angst i guess, mistress/servant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:34:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25339195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neednot/pseuds/neednot
Summary: “When you came downstairs last night in that dress,” she said quietly, “it was almost as if she was here again, almost as if I could feel her. You felt her too, I saw it in your face. It was as if she were there with us, and I had her back to me again.”Mrs. de Winter confesses all her intimate fears only to have Mrs. Danvers listening in instead of her husband.
Relationships: Mrs. Danvers/I, Mrs. Danvers/Ich, Narrator (Rebecca)/Mrs. Danvers (Rebecca)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 12





	immer fällt auf mich ihr schatten / her shadow always falls on me

I paced back and forth in front of Rebecca’s room. It was morning, barely; I could see the weak light of the sun through the crack in the door. I had spent the night waiting for him to come up to comfort me, had almost scrubbed my face raw after crying, my eyes still red.

Maxim was in there, of that I was certain. He had seen me in Rebecca’s clothes and had been driven back into her room to mourn, to be with her. Nothing I did mattered, because I was not her.

He wanted her, they all did. They had made that clear last night, the whispers and gossip when I had emerged in that dress.

The dress that _she_ had suggested.

My hands balled into fists. I wasn’t going to think about her, about the cruel trick she had played on me. About the fleeting happiness I had felt in that dress, how beautiful I had felt before I walked down the stairs and all of it had been ruined.

I had felt beautiful, like Rebecca might have felt. Confident.

But I could never be her, that much was evident.

“Maxim, please,” I said, leaning my cheek against the wood of the door. “I know you’re in there, I can hear you. I—I’m sorry, I didn’t know, I swear I didn’t. I know you want Rebecca and I’m _sorry,_ I’m sorry I reminded you of her, I’m sorry I’m not her, I just—I just want to talk—”

I sniffed, stepping back from the door. Those damned tears had started again, and I wiped my eyes with the heel of my hand. I heard the doorknob turn, heard the door open, and tried to paste a smile on my face for Maxim.

But when I turned, it wasn't Maxim. It was Mrs. Danvers. Her face was cold and impassive, and I felt that humiliation building even further in me.

She had heard. She had heard everything, all of my fears and confessions, and after that wretched stunt she’d pulled with the costume I had just given her more ammunition with which to hurt me.

“Good morning, Madam,” she said, and I stepped back from her. “You're awake early. Did you sleep poorly?”

My face felt hot. How dare she. How dare she, after what she had done, stand there and pretend like nothing was wrong.

“Leave me alone, Mrs. Danvers,” I said. I pushed past her, into Rebecca’s room, wishing to be alone but realizing as soon as I had entered that I would not get the chance, that she had followed me in here to continue her torment.

“Madam...”

“What?” I snapped. I turned. “Have you come to humiliate me further? Go ahead. I’m sure you're not surprised that Maxim doesn’t want me—how could he, after last night, he must think I wanted to play some cruel trick on him, to remind him of Rebecca.” I felt hot tears filling my eyes. “You all want me to be Rebecca, all of you, and I’m sorry, but I’m not her. I never wanted to take her place, I never had anything changed here, I tried to leave everything the way she did and yet you still hate me!”

The last words came out choked out, and I turned away from Mrs. Danvers, my face hot. I wiped at my eyes with the heel of my hand.

“I don’t hate you.”

I laughed. The sound was cold and bitter, so unlike me it was startling.

“I find that difficult to believe,” I said. “You humiliated me in front of Maxim, in front of _everyone,_ you’ve done nothing but antagonize me since I set foot in this house. Why? I have done _nothing_ to you.”

She regarded me coolly, her face dispassionate, one eyebrow raised at my outburst.

“No,” she said after a moment. “You haven’t done anything to me. You took my Mrs. de Winter’s place, but that is not as your fault.”

She stalked nearer to me as she spoke, until her face was close to mine. I shivered. She turned towards the windows, so that I caught her sharp profile, the streak of gray in her hair. “I thought I hated you. But I don’t. I hate Mr. de Winter for marrying you, for bringing a girl back to replace a woman.”

She did not turn to me, her gaze intent, fixed on the sea, on something far out there that I could not see. “You are not Rebecca,” she murmured, and I felt stung. I wrapped my arms around myself, some sort of feeble protection. “But you are Mrs. de Winter, and you deserve at least something for that.” She shook her head, laughed to herself. It was a strange sound, her laugh, one I wasn’t used to. It was low and intimate and had not been meant for me to hear, of that I was sure.

I stepped away from her, looked around the room, the shrine she had kept to Rebecca. It was nicer than mine by far, the view of the sea, the enormity of it. Here she had sat, here Mrs. Danvers and Maxim had brushed her hair, she had received their care and affection and intimacy and I was to have none of it.

I could feel Mrs. Danvers watching me, taking in the way I was looking around Rebecca’s rooms.

“When you came downstairs last night in that dress,” she said quietly, “it was almost as if she was here again, almost as if I could feel her. You felt her too, I saw it in your face. It was as if she were there with us, and I had her back to me again.” She reached out a hand then, touching my shoulder. “You must be tired, Madam. Why don’t you rest?”

Tired. I was tired. I hadn’t slept, barely knew what time it was, and let her guide me over to the bed, to Rebecca’s bed. I settled down on it, turning over one of the monogrammed pillows, laying my head down.

I did not close my eyes. I did not want her to leave. I did not want to be alone in this room, with my thoughts, with the ghost of Rebecca.

“Try to sleep,” Mrs. Danvers said, and I felt her weight settle at the end of the bed. “No one will disturb you here. I told you no one comes in here but me.”

“Yes,” I responded, but I did not close my eyes. I curled up on my side, staring at the wall. After a minute I felt her hand on my ankle, and I startled at her touch.

“It’s all right, Madam,” she said quietly. “Just relax.”

I did not. I couldn’t, not with her hand on me.

“If you don’t want me to touch you, just say so,” she said softly. “I won’t be hurt.”

“No, you…” I swallowed. “You can. It feels—it feels nice.”

“As you wish,” she responded. I tried to close my eyes again. Her fingers made small circles on my calf, and after a minute I found myself relaxing into the sensation as she rubbed higher up my leg, to my shin, my knee.

She shifted again, then, and I felt her hand moving up my leg, hot on the skin of my thigh. No longer was I on the edge of sleep now, every nerve in my body alert.

“Mrs. Danvers? What are you…?”

“This is what I would do for Rebecca when she couldn't sleep, Madam,” she said. “She would lie down in bed after I had finished brushing her hair, and I would rub her legs, and after a while she would grow tired of that and command that I touch her, tell me how to do it just so.” She smiled that queer smile of hers. “You can hardly command me in such a way, but should you... desire, I could do the same for you.”

“I...” my voice faltered at what she was saying, what she was implying.

“Do you not know how you like to be touched, Madam?” She smirked. “Then again, I assume Mr. de Winter wouldn't take the time.”

My face burned hot at her words. She was right, of course she was right, but I didn’t want to admit it, didn’t want to give her that satisfaction.

She looked at me, running her teeth over her bottom lip, her gaze slightly unfocused. I matched her look, my heart beating fast.

“Or maybe you do know,” she said quietly. “Maybe you lie awake at night, that aching between your legs, your hand drifting down to satisfy it.”

“Mrs. Danvers, you shouldn't say such things—”

Her fingers twitched on my thigh, just at the edge of my underwear, her touch searing hot. Her eyes met mine.

“Do you want me to touch you, Madam?” she asked softly. “I won’t do anything you don’t wish me to. You have only to tell me.”

My breath caught in my throat. Did I want her to touch me in that way? The thought of such a thing was wicked, perverse, and yet I could not deny the thrill that ran through me at it. Maxim had never touched me in such a way, never looked at me like he wanted to devour me the way she was doing now.

But I was starved for affection, craving it, and here she was offering to me the exact thing my husband did not wish to give.

“Y-yes,” I said. I had moved back in the bed so I was now sitting up, propped by one of the many embroidered pillows.

Mrs. Danvers pushed my nightgown aside, her hand brushing over my knickers, the spot between my legs.

“You're already wet, Madam,” she murmured, and a soft sigh escaped me. “And I’ve barely even touched you. My, but you are desperate, aren’t you?”

I lifted my hips automatically as she tugged at the waistband of my knickers, with little thought given to how willing I was to do so. Her hand rested on the inside of my thigh, my breath coming in short pants.

She looked at me, her expression serious, dark.

“Mrs. Danvers...”

“Rebecca would command me to touch her,” she said, and her voice had that strange animated quality to it. “She would not simply lie there and allow me to do what I pleased.”

I faltered. I was not Rebecca, Mrs. Danvers had made that clear enough.

God damn me though, I wanted to be. Just for a moment. If it would get me what I wanted. After all I was here in Rebecca’s bed and she was not; she was lying out there in the sea, her ghost wandering the grounds.

“Please,” I said, my voice coming out small. I cleared my throat, not looking at her, focusing on the heat of her hand on my skin, the throb between my legs. “Touch me.”

Without a word her hand slid between my legs, parting the flesh there, her fingers quickly finding the sensitive nub that Maxim never could. I stifled a groan into my hand, my back arching.

“Tell me,” she whispered, her voice soft, and I finally dared to look at her. Her expression was feverish, the way she so often looked when speaking about Rebecca, her lips slightly parted. “How should I touch you, Madam?”

“I... harder,” I said, and she pressed down against me more, her strokes still even.

“Like this?”

“Y-yes,” I gasped. “Like that—”

She increased her pace then and it was too much, too overwhelming, and I realized with a start she would not slow unless I told her to do so; that this was for her benefit as much as it was for mine, that pleasure of being commanded.

“S-slow down, Mrs. Danvers,” I said, and she obeyed. We were both panting now. She set a slow pace, her strokes against me firm, but I found it was not enough and began to desperately grind my hips against her hand, wanting more but not knowing what or how to ask for it.

“Sometimes,” she said, noticing my efforts, “when my lady would ask me to do this, she would tell me to enter her, the way a man would.” That queer smile briefly crossed her face. “My lady swore like a sailor, you know—shocked everyone when she did, that beautiful woman with a mouth that filthy. Of course men found it charming, especially when they took her to bed.”

I faltered. She was still touching me, her hand still positioned between my legs, her face flushed as though she were the one being pleasured.

“I never minded it, it was all part of her spirit of course; such vulgarity did not shock me. I've heard worse from my staff.”

“Mrs. Danvers...” Where was she going with this? I didn't wish to think about Rebecca, about the superior way she would have commanded her lovers, a way I was unable to do.

Her gaze sharpened on me then, and she slid her fingers down, teasing my entrance. I gasped.

“Rebecca often said,” she said, her voice low, “that I fucked her better than any man ever could. Those were her words: ‘You fuck me better than a man, Danny.’”

I shivered at the words coming out of her mouth; coarse, depraved language I had scarcely heard, save for Mrs. Van Hopper’s anger from time to time. But never in the way Mrs. Danvers was describing, never in a way associated with pleasure.

Then, what she was doing to me was coarse and depraved, was it not?

“Do you want me inside you, Mrs. de Winter?” she asked softly, her hand now barely touching me. “I think you do; you're wet enough.”

I stifled a gasp, nodded. Her dark eyes met mine.

“Then command me to do so. Like she would.”

I swallowed. I knew what she meant, knew what she was asking.

“I... I don’t think...”

“Come now, Mrs. de Winter, where's that fire you showed me earlier?” She smiled. “Perhaps you don't want me, after all; tell me and I’ll go.”

She made to pull her hand away and my own shot out, my fingers closing on her slender wrist.

“Stay,” I said, my voice raspy. “Please, I...” I swallowed. “I... I want you.”

“You want me to what, Madam?”

I could feel my face heating up, the quick flutter of her pulse under my fingertips.

She wanted this as badly as I did.

“Fuck me,” I said. “Please.” I pulled her wrist back towards me, felt her fingers brushing through the coarse hair between my legs.

“Tell me again,” she whispered.

I met her eyes. I knew she did not want me, not truly; she wanted Rebecca.

But Rebecca wasn’t here anymore. I was.

“Fuck me, Danny,” I said, and my voice didn't sound like my own.

She shuddered, and slid one of her fingers inside me. My eyes fluttered closed. “Oh,” I gasped. “God—that—”

“Yes?”

“Yes,” I said. “Yes.”

She crooked her finger, pressing it into me almost up to her knuckle. “What do you want, Madam?” she asked, her voice breathless.

“Harder,” I said. I resisted the urge to add “please,” biting my tongue so I wouldn't say it.

She drew her finger out and then entered me again, building up a steady rhythm. Something hot began building in my core as she did so, a sensation I was almost unfamiliar with.

“Oh you’re close, Madam, I can feel it,” she murmured. She shifted so she was almost now leaning over me, thrusting harder. I leaned back to give her a better vantage point, tilted my hips towards her.

“More,” I said. “More, I need—more.”

She nodded and pushed another finger in, her thumb finding that same sensitive spot between my legs. I gasped.

“Danny—”

“Let me make you come, Madam,” she whispered. She picked up her pace but this time I found I welcomed it, a moan building in my throat.

“God, yes—there—”

I reached out, grasping for something to ground me, finding her arm, the thick fabric of her dress. I dug my fingers into arm, my gasps pitching higher.

And then I was gone. That hot desire that had been building in me uncoiled, hips bucking against her hand. She was destroying me, her hand pressed hard over my mouth, stifling my cries.

After what seemed like ages my body stopped shaking, my heart slowing. Mrs. Danvers had moved her hand from my mouth, now fidgeting with the fabric of her dress. Her other hand was still inside me. I was still gripping her arm.

I let go first, my fingers tight as I flexed them, my breathing still shallow.

Without a word she removed her fingers from me, and I felt the ache of their absence immediately, and a sudden sharp longing to have her back.

“Mrs. Danvers...”

She did not look at me. She pulled a handkerchief out of her pocket, one I had not seen before, carefully wiping her hand on it before tucking it back in the black folds of her dress.

What would she do with it later? Would she take it out and think of me, this morning, what she had done?

But that was a perverse, wicked thought.

I ran my fingers through my hair, took a breath. The silence seemed to fill the room, loud and pervasive just moments after the noises I had made.

“I trust you’re satisfied, Madam,” Mrs. Danvers said after a moment, her voice quiet.

I faltered; I did not know what to say. What to expect. Whenever Maxim was done with me he just went back to bed.

“I... did Rebecca...” I didn't know what I was asking or why until it was out of my mouth. “Did she ever—do you need—?”

A harsh laugh escaped her, and she stood.

“Every time I think—God, but no. You're not her.” She shook her head. “Rebecca never touched me. I never asked her to, it wouldn’t have... for a woman of her station to—” Her hands clenched. “No. You don't need to reciprocate, Mrs. de Winter.”

“But I want...”

“No, you don't,” she said harshly. She turned to face me then, and I suddenly felt more exposed than when she had been inside me. “You're only feeling soft towards me because I made you come, something I'm sure your husband has never done.” Her eyes were wide. “And I'm already beginning to regret _that_. You may be Mrs. de Winter but we both know who still holds the power in this household. No matter how much we both pretend, you will never be like my Re—”

Her voice choked off and for a second I thought it was out of anger, but then her hand flew to her mouth and she turned from me.

I wanted to go to her, had halfway stood, my knickers pooling sadly on the floor, my hand outstretched, but there was suddenly a bright light and a crash outside the window.

“What—“

“Rockets,” Mrs. Danvers said, and when I caught her face again it was once more lifeless and dead, with the exception of a small crease of worry between her eyes. “A ship’s been stranded.” She turned to me. “You should go.”

“I…”

“Go, Mrs. de Winter,” she hissed. “I’m sure your husband will be down there waiting.”

I bit my lip, hurriedly redressed myself and all but ran to the door. When I turned to look back, she was standing silhouetted against the window, occasionally lit by the rockets on the bay below, and I knew she was searching for Rebecca, that I truly was just a poor substitution for her lady.

But she turned then, and caught my eye, and I thought that maybe, maybe I had escaped Rebecca’s shadow after all, if only for a fleeting, brief moment.

Or maybe I had just imagined it, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> I always love the implications at the end of "Und das und das und das" in the musical that Mrs de Winter has been confessing all these wretchedly intimate fears of hers only to have Mrs. Danvers listening rather than Maxim.  
> I also really wanted to find a situation I could fit the word "fuck" into and I have done so.


End file.
